Fletch Update 5_24

“Come, let’s get out of the rain,” Threlfall suggested.

Bethany departed the capstan without accepting the seer’s outstretched hand. She turned toward her cabin briefly but moved instead up the deck. Walking slowly, Bethany listened to the sounds beneath the patter of rain: sailors meant to be on watch whispering as they kept dry in the stairwell, the rhythmic clatter of coal shovels rising from the engine room skylight, the creak of rigging, the half-rings of the ship’s bell as its striker swayed with the waves, and the idle whistling of the helmsman. She had done much the same, buoyed by papaver, from the open window of her garret on long nights. Then, though the sounds had been different: the footfalls and songs drunks and street sweepers and the distant clang of steam trams.

Bethany reached Fletch’s prow with half closed eyes. Threlfall was just behind her as if he expected her to crumple at any moment. Standing where the port and starboard gunnels met and the bowsprit protruded she put her hands on the rail. After a moment she found the ship, something reaching out to her, feeling without form. Fletch did not send the light, soaring sensation of before but instead a steady, almost warm expression. Around the edges Bethany was certain she felt a new fraying, the phantoms of the yacht’s bullet and shell wounds. Though the vessel seemed content enough there was now a pall of old agony about her. Bethany felt it in her stomach and the lids of her eyes. It was familiar enough.

“How is she?” Threlfall asked.

Bethany opened her eyes and Fletch let go.

“Fine, I think,” she replied.

“Good, now come on, you’re asleep on your feet.”

“You can go. I know the way back,” Bethany suggested with a wistful glance.

Threlfall adjusted his boat cloak but did not move from alongside her at the rail. The two looked across the sea lit by a half moon.

After a silent interval, Threlfall turned to her and pointed: “Do you see that? Just off the bowsprit.”

Bethany looked. She saw only ocean until, as a wave broke, a constellation of lamplight appeared in the distance. “I do. Is it an island?”

By way of answering the seer moved to the chartroom and, consulting the current plot, shook his head.

“Not unless we’re off course by several degrees,” he explained. From the chartroom door he addressed the helmsman: “Mr. Collins, your glass if you please.”

The helmsman knelt to pass a spyglass beneath the bridge railing. Taking it with a nod, Threlfall returned to the bowsprit and sighted down it.

“I see a streak of hull and plenty of lights in the superstructure, whatever she is she’s lit up like a liner,” he reported.

“Is she ours?” Bethany inquired.

“She may be a troopship headed for another island but I’ve received no traffic about an invasion this far south. Mr. Collins, who is the officer of the watch?”

“Badrine down below. It’s his go-round but he gets to stay out of the rain all night ‘cause of his speciality,” Collins answered with an air of indignity.

Bethany was following Threlfall now and both soon reached the engine room skylight. Cracking open a vent pane, Threlfall shouted: “We’ve got a ship sighting. Come take a look. I’m not waking Granger without the watch officer’s say so.”

Badrine looked up from a card game - he was losing to a stoker, badly - and replied: “Right, right. Good thinking he needs his rest with that damned wound.”

The clatter of the Chief Engineer’s boots up several metal ladders and, ultimately, the teak stairs leading to the deck reverberated throughout the ship. He wore no cloak against the rain yet the fine coating of oil that clung to him made it bead and roll off neatly.

“Where’s the interloper?” he began.

Handing him the glass, Threlfall stated, “Go forward, look down the bowsprit and then a bit to port. You should have her.”

Badrine did this. “That’s a ship alright and moving fast. If she’s ours she liable to be off course, if she’s theirs, well... we had better wake the Master.”

The trio were soon before Granger’s cabin door. As the officer of the watch, Badrine knocked. They head the old man stir and swing his legs out of his bunk, followed by knock of his walking stick against the deck as he raised himself up.

“Ship sighted, sir,” Badrine explained as the Sailing Master approached his door.

“Disposition?” Granger asked as he stepped onto the deck, barefoot with an oilskin over his nightclothes.

“Unknown but in these waters...” Threlfall began before the Master interrupted him.

“Unlikely to be a friend,” Granger stated, continuing “Show me, please.”

Four now proceeded to the bowsprit and consulted the spyglass.

“A liner as sure as I am standing here,” Granger concluded. “If the fools still have her carrying passengers we can stop her - dealing with civilians will be like running an asylum so I would not try to make a prize of the whole ship, but we can empty the purser’s safe and clean out the larder for certain. If she’s a troopship or an armed cruiser then we must engage her lest she kill our lads.”

The Sailing Master made his way to the bridge and tried to mount the ladder. His leg wound thwarted him. Turning to Badrine he ordered: “Go up there and signal Tess to follow us as quick as she can, we are chasing a steamer and can longer keep alongside. Then go below, go  full ahead. Those liners think speed makes them immune to raiders but they’ve not counted on us.”

Granger retreated to his cabin by way of the chartroom. Fletch’s signal lamp flickered the message to Tess, who, after some time likely spent in rousing Mr. Luft, acknowledged with “good hunting.” This done, Badrine hurried below.

Bethany looked to Threlfall: “How long will it be before we are fighting them?”

“The rest of the night for certain, maybe most of the day as well. If we are faster, and we may not be, it will only be by a knot or so, catching up will not be easily done.”

“If that’s the case then I’m going to bed,” Bethany announced.

As Bethany entered her bunk the off-duty stokers were rousted from theirs. Fletch would need every man of her black gang to have a hope of catching the liner.


The mid-morning sun shone on every arshin of canvas Fletch could spread and beat down through the skylight on stokers who shoveled as quick as they could until another replaced him, like post horses ridden to exhaustion. Tess was a dot on the horizon off her stern and the liner was roughly the same size off her fore.

“Has she changed heading or speed?” Granger asked, sipping coffee.

“No sir, nothing to show that she sees us,” the helmsman replied.

“Very good.”

A party of sailors, joined by Bethany, Farley, and Threlfall, stood behind the bowsprit, leering at the target. Most looked with their naked eyes or passed about a tarnished spyglass while the three officers shared a finer one.

“Two buff funnels, black hull,” Threlfall observed.

“That’s the Bexar Imperial Steam Navigation Company,” a sailor piped up, proudly.

“How do you know?” Farley inquired.

“Three years back I went over there to gamble and had to work my passage back, if you catch my meaning, sir. I didn’t speak the language worth a damn but I begged until they made me a deckhand on the Hund for one crossing.”

“Is that Hund?” Threlfall indicated the distant ship.

“No sir, no, she was a four piper, if this one’s only two she’s liable to be a Rex class. They built a lot of those, fast mail ships for their colonies down here. Passenger accommodations too but that’s gravy really.”

Farley leaned in, “Were you ever aboard a Rex? Could you draw a deck plan? Even a rough one could help my boys greatly.”

“Can’t say I was sir, only saw a few alongside the quay.”

“What would they be using one for now?” Threlfall interrogated.

“She’d make a fine commerce raider, plenty fast as you see, but running like this, perhaps she’s just the same glorified mail packet as before.”



Dinner was eaten on the fantail, with directionless conversations conducted between long looks forward. The liner was growing in their view. A sailor bearing a slip of paper interrupted an anecdote from Farley about a pistol duel he had witnessed as a youth. The slip was handed to Granger, who unfolded it.

The sailor pointed to a number on the paper: “The outcome’s at the bottom there sir but he left his work so you can see it’s accurate.”

“Thank you, you are dismissed,” Granger replied, then, studying the paper he announced, “Helm estimates the liner has increased speed by half a knot and her course has changed twice in the last hour.”

“She knows we are going after her,” Farley observed.

“Almost certainly yes. Her first course change was 46 minutes ago by the chronometers. If we assume she also went to full ahead then she has only gained half a knot in that time. She must have been full away on passage and close to her top speed already.”

A look of approval appeared on the men at the table. Bethany asked: “Is she too fast for us now?”

“We may cease gaining on her but we can keep up,” Granger answered.

“To what end?”

“She cannot countenance us following her to port, where she will have to slow and we could take her. She will either turn to fight or turn to run for the safety of a friendly warship or fort. When she does we will have her, for turning means slowing.”

“What if both of those can be found ahead of her?” Bethany wondered.

“In that case we will have to hope her stoker’s hearts give out.”



The next morning saw the liner still running and now growing smaller. Without warning, however, she slowed dramatically while keeping on the same course.

“That’s an engineering casualty, she’s thrown a propeller blade or lost an engine,” Badrine pronounced, his oily hands gripping a spyglass. His watch was over and he would normally be sleeping but he and half of the others meant be in hammocks were instead viewing the chase.

“Pass the word to Mr. Granger, she’s broken something and is slowing,” The Chief Engineer instructed.

Moments later, Granger emerged from his cabin and strode, as best he could with the aid of his stick, to Farley: “Ready the launches and standby to beat to quarters, we may be on her soon depending on the damage.”

“Aye, sir,” the Marine assented.

It was the creak of rope against davits that drew Bethany’s attention. The unfinished portrait of Clotilde stood before her, she was making every effort to complete it from memory. Some features remained indistinct however, and so she added more to the background while she devised ways to return to Tess or bring Clotilde to Fletch. She foresaw few scenarios in which Mr. Luft would send his daughter into the midst of a largely unfamiliar crew alone but, then again, he had exposed his entire family to far worse by taking them to sea. She supposed the father really did not care but, as she had told Threlfall, was merely relaying his wife’s protest.

Bethany opened her door onto the deck and was nearly bowled over by two sailors rushing to man a boat. “Have we caught them?”

One sailor turned, “not yet love but she’s slowing now.”

Bethany went forward to the clutch of watchers at Fletch’s prow.

“We’re closing, by god,” Badrine murmured, still looking through his glass.

“May I see?” Bethany inquired.

Threlfall handed her his spyglass. She raised it just in time to see a large black shape tumble over the liner’s side.

“What was that?” Bethany wondered aloud.

“A piano!” Badrine laughed, “they’re trying to lighten the ship and gain a knot or two, they know we’re tightening the noose.”

“Will it work?”

“Probably not.”

The liner’s coaling hatches opened and wheelbarrow-loads of fuel began to go into the water as well.

“We’re about to find out if she’s any hidden deck guns, for she’ll shed those too,” Badrine mused, “wait... damn.”

The engineer looked long at the stern of the liner.

“Her starboard screw’s turning again. If it was her engine they got it running and if she threw a blade they’ve decided to suffer the vibration damage to keep up speed.”

The sailors around the prow muttered disapproval and few walked off to get some sleep. Granger approached. “She’s moving off now, what’s the matter?”

“They either repaired the engine or are willing to run on a crippled screw we might still catch her but it’s no longer a certainty,” Badrine replied.

Granger nodded gravely, “go below, you will be on watch again in a few hours.”

As the engineer complied, Granger addressed the helm: “Make regular speed calculations, theirs and ours. If they begin to pull away I want to know immediately.”

To Bethany and Threlfall he explained, “Unless we catch them in the next 12 hours I am going to call this off, I cannot justify the coal burn for a pointless lark.”



At six bells in the dog watch the helmsman handed a slip of paper down to Granger who read it with solemnity.

“Stop engine. We will wait for Tess here,” he instructed.

As the helmsman relayed the order the sailors within earshot went slack with disappointment.

Granger spoke to them, loud enough to ensure all on deck heard it “She’s making 20 knots, we are making 18. One can out-sail many things but not mathematics.”

As Granger removed his hat to clear the narrow door of his cabin the wind shifted. For several days it had been relatively low and blowing southward, putting Fletch on a run and providing her prey with a tailwind. Now, though, it was blowing east to west and far faster.

The master stopped dead and turned around, walking to the gunnel. He raised his old straw hat into the air and felt the wind buffet it, divining its direction.

“Helm, belay the stop order and go full ahead again. Mr. Boyle we have the wind for a beam reach and we shall use it.”

The bosun set his sailors to work and procured more from below deck. Quickly, Fletch’s sails moved from wing-on-wing, perpendicular to hull, to roughly in line with it, their spars turned out at 30 degrees. This was a more efficient configuration for the sails and good for a precious knot or so.



Shellfire rocked Fletch. Bethany found herself awake on the floor of her cabin, having been thrown from her bunk, with the light of dawn prying at her eyes. She heard another shell whistle overhead followed by Fletch’s rebuttal in the form of rifle fire. A drum roll sounded and tens of feet beat their way onto deck or to their fighting stations. Sheepishly, Bethany rose and peered out her cabin window. Somehow, in the night, they had caught up with the liner. It was less than a verst away. A deck gun at her stern was responsible for all the commotion.

Bethany weighed staying in her cabin but she felt she knew by  the plaster and tar filled bullet holes in the door and bulkhead that it would protect her from nothing. Still in her nightclothes she stepped onto the deck. As it had been for the last several days, the action was concentrated at Fletch’s prow. Nock and his gunners were standing ready at the fantail but could do nothing while their target was still ahead of them. Farley knelt near the bowsprit with his carbine braced against the rail. He fired, evidently aiming at the enemy gun crew. A marine next to him with a spyglass reported “miss, low and to starboard.”

“Get me a sandbag!” Farley ordered. A sailor bolted from the prow and went below deck, returning with a sandbag in hand. Farley placed it on the rail and put his carbine atop it.

“It’s to stop the fore-end rattling around, makes his shots easier,” Threlfall whispered. He had come up behind Bethany and either noticed or presumed her bewilderment at the odd request.

Farley called for quiet and made careful adjustments to his stance, then squeezed the carbine’s trigger.

“Hit,” the marine with the glass announced.

The sailors whooped approval. On the liner one of the gunners slumped over and was hauled off by his compatriots.

Fletch was still gaining on the enemy. Farley took another shot: “hit.”

A few rifle shots emanated from the liner’s deck but they were ill aimed.

“She’s slowing!” a sailor rejoiced. She was, the liner’s wake grew calmer as her screws halted.

“Has she struck?” Granger asked, moving toward the prow.

“No, sir,” answered several sailors and marines in tandem from behind spyglasses.

“Man the boats!” Granger ordered.



As Fletch drew nearer to the stopping liner two of her launches were lowered. They rode low in the water, overloaded with arms and men. The first, Farley’s approached the ship and tried to hook on a grapnel as before. It missed the rail at the stern and clattered along the riveted hull into the sea. As its thrower hauled it back in a Bexarian leaned over the side of his ship and tossed something in the launch.

For an instant the men in the launch froze, then they leapt from it as if it was on fire. Very soon it was, burning and sinking, in two ragged halves.

A sailor commented “They have bombs! The bastards!” as the other launch rowed quickly toward the survivors.

Granger shouted at the helm, “bring us up, we are going to recover the remaining launch at once.”

Fletch accelerated slightly and turned toward the enemy. Rifle fire lanced onto her deck, holing her sails on the way. One passed so close to Bethany she thought she could feel the air it displaced. She dropped and sought cover against the gunnel only to have a sailor bark: “Out of the way! We’ve got to man these davits!”

Bethany half-crawled forward as a parcel of sailors moved into place to haul up the launch. When they did so as much blood as water dripped from it.

Farley rose and vaulted onto Fletch’s deck commanding: “Get the wounded below. He was himself wounded, shrapnel could be plainly seen in his cheek and neck. Three men were dragged from the launch and down into the purgatory of the lower deck. Bethany could hear someone spreading sand again.

The liner’s aft gun had been re-manned. It fired and though it missed the tower of water crashed onto Fletch’s deck - they were but a few clicks of elevation away from a potentially fatal hit.

Granger paced the forecastle, stopping every few steps to lean on his stick. Bandaging his neck, Farley approached him. Bethany did not hear what passed between them but soon the surviving marines and a large party of armed sailors were moving aft and Granger was awkwardly scaling the ladder to the bridge.

Threlfall passed her, fumbling with his service revolver. “Get below!” he snapped before adding, “please.”

Bethany tried to move below deck but the trail of blood leading there kept her back, she did not wish to go and hide among the dying. Instead she pressed herself more tightly against the gunnel and turned to look aft. Fletch turned sharply. Granger was at the helm. She bore down on the center of the liner before turning away, leaving only an arshin between the two hulls.

“Stand back! Back against the other rail as far as ye can!” Nock demanded. The sailors and marines - a boarding party - did as ordered and Nock traversed and declined his gun until it pointed directly at the liner’s hull, its muzzle nearly touching.

He fired. The blast of the shot mixed immediately with the explosion of its impact. Through the smoke was seen a jagged hole in the liner’s side. A boarding plank was laid over Fletch’s gunnel and into the orifice. Though it shifted wildly as both vessels rolled on the waves it slowly managed to pass the entire party onto the enemy. Threlfall brought up the rear, his parade saber drawn. Fletch turned away just as soon as gunner pulled the plank back. Silence reigned for nearly a minute as the boarders found their in the darkened corridors bearings and moved to take the ship.

The first gunshot was heard on Fletch as a very dull pop echoing out the shell hole. It was followed by another, even more muffled shot that heralded the start of a volley, then the less measured back and forth of fire that went on until the gun battle passed entirely out of hearing.